


I Can Fly

by Fallingtowardsoblivion



Series: To Someday Fly [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Americana, Artist Merlin, Depression, Drunken musings, Flying, Homophobia, M/M, Route 66 - Freeform, Songfic, Warning: pretty much contemplating suicide, i can fly by lana del rey, nostalgic, part one, short fic, the Hoover dam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingtowardsoblivion/pseuds/Fallingtowardsoblivion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short songfic inspired by I Can Fly by Lana Del Rey</p><p>Merlin goes on a road trip in 1930s America to the Hoover Dam, where he plans on killing himself. Little does he know that a (irritable, inconvenienced) tourist just so happens to be in the same place at the same time Merlin plans on 'learning to fly'.</p><p>Warning: suicide trigger</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Literally this is a middle of the night songfic that just decided to pop into existence. I guess it's a bit of subconscious contemplation on my part - I've been having some things going on lately. (Mainly: finding out my mom is a bit of a homophobe.) so I dunno. It's not funny or anything, and really is quite bland, soooo read at your own risk.

It was as simple as this: Merlin was going to die.

Looking out over the frankly stomach churning drop of the Hoover dam, though, the simple prospect of suicide suddenly wasn't nearly so simple. Really, how did jumpers do it?

Merlin shook his head at his thoughts, at his silly brain, and instead chose to take another shot from the handle of whisky in his hand. His feet dangled over the edge, swinging ever so slightly as the man got progressively drunker.

He'd sold everything. Given the money to charity. Taken his beat up pickup and driven down the acclaimed Route 66 until he reached shithole, Arizona, and then driven some more.

It's weird, really, how the idea had been such a good idea when he was sober.

_I guess Valiant was right. Booze makes me chickenshit._

A grimace and another swig of alcohol followed this thought, this realization. Valiant had also been right about something else.

Merlin was hopelessly, inexorably gay. Quite frankly, the man doubted that even if he'd wanted it, that there'd be a cure. More likely than not, he'd just end up right back here.

Back at the edge of the fucking Hoover Dam.

As a kid, before reality and the Fates tangled him within their webs, strangling out the young artist with nooses of expectation and formality, Merlin had wanted to fly. Pa had flown for America in the Great War. Been given honors and medals and praise - all of which was stripped from him when the truth came out.

_Like father, like son._

The only difference was that at least Balinor had made himself a name to ostracize.

Merlin had merely fallen from the grace that was an art student.

He hadn't fallen far.

Well, now he would.

Another snort, another swig of whisky. Merlin's legs still dangled; strangely comfortable with the lack of solid surface beneath them. Acclimated to the idea of a grand fall.

The pain of rejection, of the knowledge that when the gods had put him together they'd switched up the pieces, muddling his mind with a woman's and his body with a man's, had long ago gone numb. Alcohol had a way of doing that - making losses seem little and strength grow greater.

Eyeing the drop again, Merlin frowned comically.Too bad his want to live grew with his alcohol levels.

With a sigh, Merlin dropped the empty bottle next to him. It fell over, rolling off the edge of the dam. There was a delay; the crash resounded afterwards.

_Well, now is a good a time as ever._

Finally, he would know what it felt like to fly.

A goofy grin, liken to that of a kid getting away with the whole damn cookie jar, stretched across Merlin's face.

Finally, finally he would have something that was his. That no one could frown upon, or take from him. There would be no long nights spent drunk and high and wondering if the police would be breaking down the door to take him away.

Merlin would finally be free.

Free to fly away from all his troubles, the pains, the past full of regrets and agony - a past too harsh to acknowledge as anything more that a poorly kept movie reel.

Closing his eyes, comforted, Merlin spread his arms - his wings - and leaned forward.

Only to be pulled back.

Drunken and dazed, he stumbled back into the warmth latched onto his back.

"Are you fucking crazy?! My god, you - you almost died!"

Merlin frowned, his mind muddled. "I..."

The voice would have none of it, though, not even stopping to receive an answer.

"What they hell do you think you're doing?! My god,"the warmth at Merlin's back had shifted - now it was gripping his arm like an iron vice. "You're drunk!"

Stupidly, Merlin responded in the only manner he knew fit. "I was going to fly."

"Oh my... Mate, do you have a place you're staying right now?"

Merlin frowned.

He had had a place he was staying. He'd been staying with Gwaine, living with the man who he'd never been able to get fully out of his brain, until It had happened.

Until everything was ripped from his hands, and the fantasy world he'd been immersed in (a world surrounded with acceptance and happiness and love) had been drowned. Drowned along with his love, because of how foolish they'd been with a peck. A peck on the cheek, on the lips, in the line of sight of one too many people.

Now, Merlin had nowhere. He'd left the keys and a letter in Guinevere's mailbox. Checked out of the motel in BF nowhere, Az, about eight hours earlier. When the sun was still up.

He had been intent on flying.

He must've muttered something along these lines because the vice on his arm moved to his wrist and started pulling. Muttering, as it did so.

"Of course, I come along and find the one fucking bastard who decided tonight was a fine and dandy time as ever to try their luck against Icarus."

Merlin frowned. Yes, maybe he was like Icarus. Flying too close, becoming too obsessed with finding earthly happiness in unearthly (unnatural) pleasures... He wished he had more whisky.

He wished he could fly.

He must've also said that, because the vice stiffened. "Oh, no you don't. That's more than enough for you already; jesus, you smell like a liquor store - ! Mate, if you really want, I can take you up in a plane after you sober up. You'll never want to fly again afterwards - trust me."

Merlin thought this might not be so bad. But. - he hadn't wanted anyone to fly with him. Hadn't wanted any more pain, or death. Or... Anymore of this curse.

He was getting into a car, now. It was nice, air conditioned.

Definitely not the one Merlin had left at the gates.

"No, it's not." The vice let go, replaced by a belt. "It's my car, and by God if you vomit in here..."

Merlin didn't hear the rest, though. He was too busy getting lost in the soft waves of his addled mind, the out of body high of grass mixing with the booze in his veins.

For some reason, the voice droning on in the background, cursing it's luck and uttering on about their first trip to America, of their home in London, and fling in the Royal Airforce, was comforting. Warm and relaxing. It sounded like soft rain and sun warmed steel and silky pleats and the thrum of nightlife. It sounded, in its own manner, like how Merlin would suspect flight to sound. It was homey, even as it was so alien.

Too soon, though, Merlin was asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably going to add another chapter and/or instillation.
> 
> Edit: ye I added a loose sequel.


End file.
